Emil Cathedral, the Supreme Seat.

"The Holy City's spring tea is as refreshingly fragrant as ever. It lifts the spirits; one feels as if twenty years have fallen away."

Clad in voluminous, sumptuous sacred vestments, the white-haired old man set down his delicate teacup and, smiling with eyes narrowed, looked at another old man not far away.

"Wouldn't you agree, Your Holiness?"

"If you like it, you can take the chance this time to bring some out with you."

Seated cross-legged upon the void-like projection of the relic, the Pope finally lowered his head. The porcelain cup brimming with hot tea rose of its own accord and settled into his palm.

The cup slowly turned with the movement of his hand. The patterns upon it were exquisite and lovely—clusters of pale-blue blossoms blooming, lifelike.

He took a gentle sip, his expression devoid of joy or sorrow:

"You, Archbishop Lokast, in all your dignity—taking out a little precious tea? I wouldn't go so far as to charge you with embezzlement and bribery."

"Your Holiness does sound merciful."

Archbishop Lokast unceremoniously poured himself another cup. He tipped back his head and drank, but the way he did it was like a bull in a china shop, with not a trace of refinement or elegance.

"Ha... but... let's forget such things. At my age, I might climb into a coffin any day. If I die, I die—but wasting the fine tea bestowed by the Goddess, now that would be an unforgivable sin."

"You still have years to live."

The Pope gave the old man a long, deep look:

"At least long enough to see several more rounds of spring tea."

"Heh-heh, thank you for the auspicious words, Your Holiness. But to return to the embrace of the Lady Goddess a little earlier would also be a happy thing for me."

Archbishop Lokast flicked his hand; the cup landed precisely in its saucer. He rose as well and lifted his head to gaze up at the sun, moon, and stars that followed their star-tracks across the artificial firmament.

"No matter how many times I see it, this Supreme Seat is still spectacular."

"Naturally."

His Holiness stood with hands clasped behind his back. Under this artificial firmament he should have seemed so small, yet the bearing he revealed at that moment was as if the entire world revolved around him.

He stretched out his hand, as though to grasp all those suns, moons, and stars within his palm:

"These are our 'rules,' our very own... 'world'—of course it's spectacular."

"A pity it's fake," the Archbishop sighed.

"Yes, a pity it's fake..."

The Pope suddenly paused, as if someone had whispered in his ear.

He ceased looking up and instead lowered his gaze to the relic's phantom beneath his feet. Rare solemnity came over his face.

Seeing this, Archbishop Lokast, whose face looked far older than the Pope's, also grew grave. He asked in a low voice:

"Your Holiness, has the gate opened?"

"Yes, the gate has opened."

"Faster than I expected."

"Among the children this time, there are many outstanding ones."

"Indeed."

Archbishop Lokast wore a look of woe. "So I can already imagine the immense pressure those old fossils will put on us once they learn the truth."

"Do you need to worry about that?"

The Pope glanced at him. "That pressure won’t fall on you, an outposted archbishop, anyway."

"I'm merely sharing in Your Holiness's burdens."

Lokast was utterly earnest.

"Heh."

The Pope let out a quiet laugh. "No need. In this world, there doesn't yet exist a person who can make me feel pressure..."

Here he suddenly halted, as if recalling something unpleasant. The corner of his eye twitched, and his wrinkles seemed to deepen.

"All right, there is still one old coot who can make me feel pressure."

He admitted it helplessly.

Thinking of a certain white-haired old trickster who refused to act his age, the Pope turned his head sharply and flicked his sleeve with force:

"Hmph. But you needn't concern yourself with that. No one is faster—or happier—than that old thing when it comes to booting his own disciples into pits."

"That aside, have all parties done what they ought to do... are they finished?"

"Yes, Your Holiness."

Archbishop Lokast dropped the jokes, placed a hand over his chest, and saluted with solemnity:

"Everything is in readiness."

"Very good."

His Holiness stood in austere majesty, overlooking the relic's phantom beneath him:

"Then let it begin—this... high-stakes gamble... enough to change the fate of all humankind."

"Yes."

The reply came—and it was not only Archbishop Lokast's voice.

A deep, vast hum reverberated throughout the entire Supreme Seat.

The sun, moon, and stars ran along their ordained tracks, as though that were the very truth of this world.

At last, over the Pope's head, a crescent moon hung at the very center of the firmament.

It poured down radiance, supremely holy.

"For... the Goddess."

With one hand over his chest, the Pope murmured with devotion.

"For... humanity."

...

...

"Mr. Moen, the people you said we ought to save... where are they?"

In a dead silence, Margarita was the first to come back to herself and turned to look at Moen.

But to that, Moen still had no answer.

Because he didn't know either—where, beyond this wall, were the natives who, according to his earlier conversation with Freya, might meet some other conditions for becoming a saintess, were resisting the dark god's invasion, and were waiting to be saved.

Overhead was a crimson firmament.

Unlike the outer region—with its azure sky by day and its brilliant starry vault by night—the sky now seemed covered by a heavy layer of sunset-like fireclouds, dyed a dense, undispersing blood-red.

And beneath their feet was not ground,

but a construct that seemed piled from flesh and blood. Thick, heavy veins and vessels, sheathed in pinkish membranes, stretched out from the fleshy surface in all directions, and, faintly, seemed to throb from time to time.

Variform "plants" grew upon these constructs, yet each looked like a misshapen flesh-tumor—its appearance defying description.

And beneath canopies like heaps of countless infant palms, there hung fruits like skinned cattle and sheep, hanging densely, twitching from time to time, as if still alive.

Beyond that, all the way to the limit of sight, there was nothing normal to be seen—let alone any "natives." Only at the horizon's far edge did there seem to be a high tower, standing behind a hazy, blood-colored mist.

"Urgh... so damn disgusting."

Someone immediately retched. This scene almost instantly brought to mind that fetid, rotting land in the night not long ago.

"Has this place also been corroded by the dark god? So fast? Wasn't the wall supposed to ward off the corrosion?"

Moen's gaze swept across it; he frowned slightly.

The diary had mentioned that the second wall existed to fend off the so-called Outer God's corruption. Yet the sight before them could not help but make one suspect that the wall's sole purpose was to screw over innocent outsiders like them.

"Moen."

Lea seemed frightened by this unexpected scene as well. She gently tugged Moen's sleeve.

"It's all right."

Moen reassured her:

"At least it doesn't stink here."

Hm, doesn't stink?

At that, a spark flashed in Moen's mind, as if he'd caught hold of something.

His gaze swept the nauseating expanse again—a place so revolting one had no desire even for a second glance—and he couldn't help muttering to himself:

"I can't help but feel... something's off."